Who Held Your Hand 'Neath the Pale Moonlight
by Clarafeild
Summary: When Sherlock comes home for the first, time things are perfect until Sebastian Moran Finds him. mainly Johnlock, but some mentioned MorMor There's going to be angst, but also fluff I promise!
1. Chapter 1

Who Held Your Hand 'Neath the Pale Moonlight

Summary: When Sherlock comes home for the first time things are perfect until Sebastian Moran Finds him. (mainly Johnlock, but some mentioned MorMor)

Rating: pg13 (for now)

-So this is a quick story that will probably be about three or four chapters, it's mainly 50/50 fluff and angst... dont worry if you dont want the angst, that will come in the next chapter.

Chapter One:

The first night Sherlock reappears on the steps of 221 Baker Street, John's first instinct is to kiss him, but when he approaches his better judgment takes control, so he punches him instead.

"I suppose that was justified." Sherlock says in that still familiar and unforgettable voice.

"You fucking prick." John says helping sherlock off the ground and through the door to 221b. As Sherlock shrugs out of his unfamiliar leather jacket he rubs his cheek and looks at John.

"You can either explain yourself, or you can leave again." John's words are cold and they cut through Sherlock harshly; he had expected a much warmer welcome.

"John," he reaches out and puts a hand on Johns upper arm, "come sit, I swear I will tell you everything."

When the pair are both seated in their chairs John realizes what is actually happening, that John is sitting across from Sherlock for the first time in three years, tears threaten to fall but he knows he can't be weak now, not in front of Sherlock, not now.

John sits as Sherlock tells him everything, he tells him how he faked his death ("a small rubber ball under the arm can do a lot, John"), how he was given an option (Jump or have the people he loves killed), how he tracked and killed all of Moriarty's men (to St. Petersburg, Berlin, New york and even Paraguay ), and how Moriarty isn't dead either.

"What do you mean he isn't dead?" They found his body on the roof of Bart's.

"Yes, He's a little worse for wear, and he's not calling any shots anymore. He has no one left, his entire empire is either dead or incarcerated. Everyone but Sebastian Moran." Sherlock's voice trails off ominously.

"Who?"

"Sebastian moran, ex-army turned sniper, no doubt he was one of the snipers that night at the pool. He's ruthless, gave me this around June last year" Sherlock pulls down the neck of his t-shirt to reveal a pink scar that runs from his left clavicle to his shoulder. John stands immediately to get a better look.

"What happened?" he asks running his finger along the damaged tissue. Sherlock shakes his head and huffs loudly.

"I was in America, They were bound to catch up with me eventually." Sherlock stops short when John's hand slides up his neck to cup his cheek. "I was loaded into a van and taken to a warehouse on a river. Luckily Mycroft's men found me in under an hour. But not before moran, The crazy bastard, had cut a decently sized gash into me." Sherlock pauses and smiles a bit "That was the only time I ever doubted that I would eventually return to Baker Street." John smiles too and sits back on his chair, crossing his legs.

"So Mycroft knew."

"Yes, he's mostly responsible for the deaths and incarcerations."

"Who else?" John asks crossing his arms as well.

"Molly." Sherlock waits for a response, but gets none and continues, "Irene Adler."

"Ah yeah, I heard that she was alive during that scandal with the American Senator. Is that it?"

"Yes."

John sits and looks at Sherlock for a moment. Even though his hair is shorter and copper colored, his skin is brown and he is wearing jeans and a t-shirt instead of his usual posh suit, he looks exactly the same as the day he "died". John knows that he has aged himself, John's hair is greyer, and his frown lines a bit more pronounced, and he wonders if Sherlock will ever age.

"I'm glad you're home." He blurts without thinking. But he means it, he's never meant anything else as much as he means this.

"Me too."

Three days pass with Sherlock and John getting re-equanted with each other. John invites Lestrade over on the second day and the three of them have tea, after Greg also hits Sherlock in the face re-purpling the bruise John gave him. Mrs Hudson is in the flat constantly, fussing over getting Sherlock's things out of the boxes that had been kept in 221C and making them tea. "I'm not your housekeeper dears." She says as she dusts the shelves of Sherlock's unused room.

"John?" Sherlock calls from his room on the third day; the doctor pokes his head round the corner from the kitchen.

"Hmm?"

"Molly told me that she gave you my scarf and coat at the funeral."

"Oh." John says softly, closing his eyes, it still hurts a bit to think about the funeral. "Yeah, she did. I'll-um I'll get it for you."

Sherlock follows John from his room quietly until they reach the upstairs room; when John turns the door knob Sherlock says, "You keep them here?"

"Yeah, um, Yeah." John opens the door and goes to the bed. He takes the scarf out from under his pillow, before moving to the closet and pulling the coat from a hanger in the back. "Here." He says not looking at Sherlock and blushing with embarrassment.

"John." Sherlock sighs.

"Don't Sherlock."

"Don't what?" He asks taking the garments gently.

"Don't psychoanalyze me, or deduce what you can from the fact that I have slept with your scarf under my pillow for three years. Don't embarrass me any more, don't act like this is some how weird, you left sherlock, and..." John trails off when he realizes he had begun to yell. "Sorry, Just, don't okay?"

"I wouldn't"

John scoffs, "You would."

Sherlock just shakes his head puts grasps John's wrist. "Don't ever apologize to me. I should be apologizing to you, everyday, all the time."

John twists his hand until his fingers are intwined with Sherlocks and the pair simply look at each other for a long moment.

"I was thinking Angelo's tonight." Sherlock says pulling away and starting down the stairs, of course John follows him.

Dinner at Angelo's is strangely normal after Angelo's initial shock at seeing Sherlock "I knew you were alive, the great Sherlock Holmes wouldn't die like that." He says as he rushes off to get them a candle. Sherlock orders Pasta Primavera, but of course eats most of John's lobster ravioli, they laugh at the strange Londoners passing by the restaurant, taking turns telling each-other about their lives; Sherlock deducing and John just making up hilarious stories about the strangers.

By the time they're home it is past midnight and they are impossibly tired and overly stuffed with Italian food. John helps Sherlock take off his coat that he has taken to wearing again, and his scarf, he shrugs out of his own and flops onto the sofa.

"I could fall asleep right here." John moans

"I hate how grumpy you get when you sleep on the sofa." Sherlock says poking at John's shoulder.

John smiles but closes his eyes anyways, feeling content and truly happy for the first time in a long while.

"At least budge up, I want to watch some telly."

"You don't watch the telly, you just like the background noise." John says as he slides up and leans against the arm of the sofa.

Sherlock just smiles before also sinking onto the sofa. "You can pick what we watch." he hands John the remote, he soon settles on One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest with Jack Nicholson.

It's a half hour before either of them says anything, It's Sherlock who breaks the silence. "Are you asleep?"

"no." John murmurs.

"I'm going to change."

"Mmm."

Sherlock sneaks away, and when he returns John is sleeping lightly, and snoring gently.

"John?" Sherlock prods, leaning over his sleeping friend. "Wake up, you should go upstairs."

Slowly John opens his eyes to see Sherlock looming over him, he's changed into his blue dressing gown, the one specifically designated for sleeping in. "yeah, I will." John mumbles, pulling himself off the sofa with a groan. He turns to face Sherlock and smiles.

"Tonight was good."

"I agree. Good night." Sherlock says before turning and heading towards his room.

When John slips into bed moments later, he finds Sherlock's scarf folded and placed neatly on top of his pillow. And as he falls asleep he thinks about how the scarf smells like Sherlock for the first time in three years.

(title from Ben E. King's "save the last dance for me" the title will be relevant later... I promise. If you don't know the song, LISTEN TO IT. Or look up the lyrics. It's my favorite.)


	2. Chapter 2

Who Held Your Hand 'Neath the Pale Moonlight

Summary: When Sherlock comes home for the first time things are perfect until Sebastian Moran Finds him. (mainly Johnlock, but some mentioned MorMor)

Rating: pg13 (for now)

-So this is a quick story that will probably be about three or four chapters, it's mainly 50/50 fluff and angst...

Chapter Two:

John wakes up with Sherlock's scarf wrapped around his hands, he can tell it's just before dawn, but something is wrong. Something had woken him, a sound. There was another sound from downstairs. John jumps out of bed, just as he hears the muffled sound of multiple footsteps on the stairs. He quietly curses to himself peering out his door to see two men on the landing below. As quickly and as silently as he can, John lunges forward to grab his gun from the desk drawer and slides it into the back of his pajama's waistband.

John rounds the corner and sees Sherlock's slim figure descending the stairs, flanked by another man, just as tall but much larger, and brawny as a brick wall. This man is holding a bun to Sherlock's head and carefully leading him towards the front door. John quickly fires off a text to Mycroft, before sneaking down the stairs, unfortunately snagging the one creaky step. All three men freeze. The large man looks around and sees John immediately.

"Make one move, and your smart little boyfriend will die, right now." The man smirks, "for real this time."

John lifts his hands up, to show that he has no weapon, and remains still. "You won't get very far."

"Try me." The hulking man says, before hitting Sherlock in the temple with the butt of his gun, lifting him over his shoulder and jumping down the last four stairs. Running as quickly as he can to catch up, John pulls the gun from his waistband, but by the time he reaches the front door, Sherlock and the man are no where to be seen. As John scans the empty street he sinks to the ground, dropping his gun to cover his face with his hands and he is wracked by sobs.

It takes exactly three minutes for two black cars to drive down Baker Street, and stop in front of 221. Mycroft is getting out of the first before it has even come to a full stop. "John, good god. Let's get inside."

They make it to the flat again, and John sits in Sherlock's chair as Mycroft explains that he had all the CCTVs being watched even before Sherlock had been taken, and Anthea made tea, "John, I knew how dangerous it would be for Sherlock to come back here, but I knew he needed to. I've had the entire street on surveillance for weeks in preparation for his return."

"How could this have happened then?"

"Moran must have known where the gaps in my security system are, and let me assure you, there aren't many."

"M-Moran? The one that..." John gestures to his chest where Sherlock's scar is.

"Yes. He's the worst of the worst John, Got kicked out of the army for misconduct, well, if you count killing three brothers in arms and loads of Afghani citizens misconduct." John cringes, wondering if Mycroft is trying to reassure him or not. "Well anyway, we'll get him back John, don't worry. He'll be home by tonight."

Anthea brings the tea towards them, and she and mycroft drink theirs with onehand, while they tap away on their phones. John meanwhile sinks back into the chair and just holds the warm cup between his hands.

Three hours have gone by with five sightings of Sherlock, It seems that he has been dragged just about all over London, sometimes in a taxi and sometimes by foot. The last sighting of him was by a bank security system in Southwark. John had been comforted by Mycroft's reassurance that Sherlock would be back by nightfall, but as the hours pass his confidence begins to fade. By late afternoon Mycroft has left 221b to deal with other matters, but has been keeping john informed of Sherlock's Whereabouts hourly.

It seems that as soon as Sherlock is spotted and Mycroft's men arrive to collect him, the detective and the assassin are spotted on the other side of the city. In short it has turned into a wild goose hunt. Night falls and still there is no Sherlock. John sits alone on his chair, and thinks about his luck. The bloody idiot finally comes back into his life, only to be taken away almost immediately. He thinks too, that if he could have Sherlock back again he would not fight the instinct to kiss him again.

Midnight comes, and so does a telephone call.

"John." Mycroft says sternly into the other end of the line.

"Yes, have-have you found him?"

"Yes." There is a heavy pause. "He's here with me. We're at St. Bart's."

John stops breathing, his heart shudders and a cold chill runs down his spine. Gripping the bed post tightly he nervously asks, "my god, is he alright? Oh god."

"John I think you should come down here as soon as you can."

"oh, yeah. um-yeah" John hangs up and blindly fumbles with his coat and shoes. The only thing he can see is the face of the detective splattered with blood lying atop the pavement as clearly as he could that day at Bart's three years ago. As John staggers to the door he stops at the bottom of the steps to collect himself; releasing one violent sob before descending the staircase.

Almost immediately there is a large black car pulling up to the house.

Terms like "spinal trauma" "intracranial hemorrhage caused by cerebral edema" "cerebral contusion" and "lacerations" are thrown at John before he is allowed to see Sherlock. He is a doctor of course, but here he sits in an office with Mycroft and Doctor Richardson being spoken to like a first year med-student. John understands what these things mean, but at the moment he could care less.

"He's just out of surgery," the doctor says trying to sound reassuring, "we've stopped the bleeding in his head, but there's still a risk of another hemorrhage." John knows this. "The hemorrhaging could very well have caused some type of brain damage, but we won't know for certain until he's awake. The same goes for the bruising and damage to his spine." Doctor Richardson pauses and looks at John. "There's a very high possibility of partial paralysis, maybe short term, but it could be permanent."

After finishing in the doctor's office, Mycroft takes his time to explain where Sherlock was found and what he assumed must have happened based on CCTV footage of the incident. Apparently, Moran had been trying to lose the men following him for a suitable place to slowly torture and kill Sherlock under Moriarty's supervision. He had dragged the drugged detective all over london in his efforts. When he thought that he was alone, the pair of criminals met up in one of the warehouses along the river. What happened from then on is all based on Mycroft's deductions based on Sherlock's wounds and things found at the crime scene. In all likely-hood, Sherlock was taken into the warehouse, tied up, and cut with some type of hunting knife. When the criminal pair felt that Sherlock had been sufficiently tortured he was dragged to the roof and pushed off. It had been then that Mycroft's men had arrived.

"And what about Moriarty and Moran?"

"we've got them this time."

"thank god." John sighs, leaning back into his uncomfortable waiting room chair.

It is another two hours before John is allowed in to see Sherlock. Mycroft had popped his head in just to reassure himself of Sherlock's condition, then left to deal with urgent business, leaving John alone with the consulting detective. Said detective is currently lying deathly still on the only bed in the suite, and so heavily bandaged and bruised that John can hardly stand knowing that within the bandages is the most vibrant and full of like person he knows. "Sherlock." he whispers wistfully as his sits in the chair beside the bed.

Sherlock still isn't awake in the morning. John had stayed with him until the sun came up, but by seven the nurses came in to run a few tests. As quickly as he can, John runs home to get a set of new clothes, and bring some of Sherlock's things for when he wakes up.

When back at the hospital John runs into Mycroft as he rushes from Sherlock's room on his phone. "Good morning, Doctor Watson." he says pulling the phone away from his face.

"Good Morning." John yawns.

"He's apparently doing well. The bleeding has stopped entirely they say. The chances of it starting again have dropped significantly."

"Yes. That is good." John says quietly as he side steps Mycroft into Sherlock's room. "Ill see you around Mycroft."

"Have a good day Doctor."

John sighs, glad to be rid of Mycroft, and reclaims his seat beside Sherlock as a nurse takes his blood pressure. She only glances at him when John reaches to take Sherlock's hand in his own.

"This one's had a lot of visitors." The nurse says, smiling as she goes about her job.

"Really?" John asks, genuinely surprised that anyone other than Mycroft and himself has visited, after the surprise wears off panic sets in. "Who visited him?" He asks, thinking about Moriarty's men and squeezing Sherlock's hand a fraction tighter.

"Oh, other than yourself there's been Mister Holmes, Molly from down in the morgue, that policeman with the french name and Doctor Stamford." the nurse answered looking at the numbers on the charts and such.

"Thanks." John replied, relived that no dangerous strangers had come to visit the detective. Of course Mycroft had security on the building.

"Not a problem at all." She said, finally taking her leave.

AN: I hope whoever is reading this is enjoying it!


End file.
